The Party That Wasn't
by Imogen74
Summary: Halloween. Victorian themed. Double murders and such. For a Tumblr exchange. Sherlolly, Post TFP.


"It's a stupid idea."

"Why? Because it's not yours?"

"Nope," Sherlock sat back in his chair after hitting 'send' on the email. "It's stupid independent of any origin. I have no desire to go, and I wish you'd just give it up," he stood and went to the kitchen to boil a kettle.

John Watson was standing in the middle of the sitting room at 221B. He had asked his best friend to go to a Halloween Party…it was supposed to be scary or some such rubbish. A costume party. Themed.

Sherlock Holmes didn't do "themes."

"I was hoping not to go stag. There wouldn't be much point at all, since I have a sitter for Rosie," he shoved his hands in his pockets.

"Well, you'll need to think of someone else," he poured the water.

"Mycroft said that he might go," John offered.

This stopped him. Mycroft? He looked at John. "My brother indicated that he might go to a party?" he walked back into the sitting room and slouched into his chair. "We never celebrated Halloween. Mummy was never keen…"

"Well! All the more reason, I'd say."

"Why would Mycroft want to go to a Halloween costume party…?" he muttered.

"Look. Why don't you just meet me there tomorrow night?" John rather wanted to get this over with.

"No need. _Mycroft_ will be there," he smiled.

"Oh for god's sake," John turned to leave. "Maybe I'll just ask Molly Hooper," and he left.

At that, his eyes snapped toward John leaving. He was going to ask Molly…?

Sherlock swallowed. It had been over a month since the events at Sherrinford. He had fallen back into some semblance of a routine, but had managed to avoid any real confrontation with anyone in the aftermath. Molly had taken a short leave from Bart's, and he had apologized, explaining everything as best he could.

Though, in retrospect, he probably could have done a better job.

He misliked dwelling on the entire episode. Painful and dull, he buried it, much as he had buried everything in his life.

There had been some scheduling of therapies, some talks with his parents and Mycroft…

But he had never really, truly, spoken with Molly. That, he thought, was a mistake.

And John was going to ask her to a party.

* * *

"Why are you going?" he was reclining on the sofa. "You hate parties."

"Yes," Mycroft replied. "But this is not for pure…" he paused. "Pleasure. I have other, more immediate concerns to attend to here."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and sat up. "Well, what is the theme?"

"Why? You aren't thinking of going…?" his voice held a chuckle.

"Why is that funny?" he stood.

"Why wouldn't it be funny?"

Sherlock cleared his throat. "What is the theme?"

There was a slight pause. "Victorian."

"Very good," and he pushed the "end" button. He certainly did not need his brother telling him what he should and should not do.

* * *

Molly was in the lab tidying up before her shift ended. She was rubbing the back of her neck and thinking that she should be getting on with a new situation. She was dead tired of this work, and not getting any younger.

She wiped down the counter and sterilized the instruments.

"Molly?"

She squeaked a little as she turned. "John!"

"Busy?"

"A bit," she smiled. "What's going on?"

"Well…I'm going to that party…the Halloween one. And I need someone to go with."

Her face fell a bit. "Ask Sherlock."

"You know Sherlock. He's not interested," John muttered. "I don't think he ever really enjoyed a proper Halloween."

"No?" she wasn't terribly interested in this topic. Sherlock had avoided things well enough…

And it hurt. She had wanted to talk to him, for she had suffered.

And everything she heard about the why's of what happened, the suffering of everyone involved…

But Molly didn't much care for everyone else. She didn't care anymore about why or whatever. She had wanted her own closure, and never received it. And he came in less frequently now.

And that hurt, too.

"No. I don't think the Holmes brothers ever really did much in terms of celebrating the macabre. Violet Holmes seems almost cheerful, which is something, considering Euros and the boys," he smiled.

Molly stared at him. "John, look. I don't think…"

"It's a Victorian thing, though. A period party. It'll be fun."

"Why are you asking me, really?" she crossed her arms in front of her.

"I simply don't want to go alone. It's not a date, Molly. We're friends," he smiled. "Meet me there at eight?"

She rolled her eyes. What was she doing tomorrow, anyway? Nothing. And she had considered going to the party…"Oh. All right, then," she smiled.

"Excellent," and he left.

Molly looked around her. Well, she'd need to find her corset.

* * *

Sherlock Holmes was standing in front of the full length mirror looking at himself. He was wearing a nineteenth century suit, cut oddly. A wool cap. An ulster overcoat.

He didn't look bad.

He didn't feel as though it was much of a costume, but there was nothing to be done at this point.

Sherlock picked up his walking stick and left, thinking that this was ridiculous, he should just visit Molly at the lab.

But that wasn't nearly as much fun…

* * *

 _Corsets should be made illegal_ , thought Molly as she negotiated the drawstrings around her abdomen. She thought that she could do with a maid, but that might be taking things a bit too much in character.

Her dress was very nice…deep green and blue, a bit of gold thread sewn in. She looked very fine.

Molly pulled a wrap around her and opened the door.

…the night was filled with fog…so much so that she could hardly see two feet in front of her. She hadn't remembered any call for this much fog. It was odd for October.

Grit crunched under her boots as she strode along, and lamplight glowed in the mist.

Lamplight…

Molly looked around. Again, she couldn't see much…

Something was amiss.

She wondered if she had missed something in the weather reports…

And then, there was the house, large and looming. A proper enough dwelling for a charity event such as this costume party. Molly ascended the stairs, noting the lack of decoration on the outside.

She entered through the front doors with some hesitance. There was lamplight and candlelight..

Molly looked around.

It appeared as though the guests had taken great pains to appear to be authentic.

"Evening, Miss," a man tipped his hat.

Molly nodded, a slightly confused look on her face. She looked around her. The place was ornately decorated…it was quite dark. Everyone seemed to be acting the part.

A bit too well.

And John was no where to be seen.

"Molly."

She turned at the sound. Sherlock Holmes had just arrived behind her. "Sherlock…where's John?"

"Something isn't right. I can't see anyone who was supposed to be here…and there's something…" he couldn't put his finger on it. And that was disconcerting.

Molly momentarily forgot that she was annoyed with him. "Well. I'll just go and find drinks, then."

"Wonderful. I'll join you."

She rolled her eyes and began to walk toward the sitting room. "I thought you weren't coming," she said, mildly disappointed.

"That hurts, Molly," he smiled. "But I changed my mind…" his voice trailed, looking around him. The sitting room had aged wallpaper, but it looked fairly new. He looked at the furniture. Ornate wooden handles adorned most of the chairs. The lamps were small and mostly ineffectual. Candlelight dominated, and there…he smelled it. Someone was smoking a pipe.

And it sunk in as he really heard the conversations being had…something about a haunting …when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth…

"Molly…" he said, absently, looking around some more, taking in the setting.

"Hm?" she sipped some wine. She had noted the dated look of the carafe. "This place is much older than I had imagined…"

"Molly…can you come with me, please?"

There it was. "No. I'm meeting John."

And he snapped his gaze toward her. "John isn't coming."

"What?" she could not believe his gall.

Sherlock took her hand and began to guide her…they bumped into people who barely took notice…

He scanned the immediate area…there was no preferable place.

He then guided her to the servant's stairs. "Sherlock!" she hissed. "We can't go up there!"

"Why ever not?" and he began to ascend the steps.

Molly wrenched her wrist away. "Stop it now. I'm not going anywhere with you. You can't just… _do_ this."

He stepped down and looked directly in her eyes. "I'm not doing anything except attempting to explain what's happening. Do you want to know what's happening?"

"We are at a costume party, Sherlock," she said, exasperated. "And by the looks of it, you haven't much experience with them."

His visage darkened. "That's true…however it's also utterly beside the point."

"Well, at parties, one generally doesn't roam around the host's house nosing in rooms…"

"Who is the host, Molly?"

She looked at him. "It's that charity…" Molly replied absently.

"If it were…" he stepped nearer. "Wouldn't there have been a proper greeter? Wouldn't there be literature about this charity?" he looked around. "And observe…the kitchen."

And Molly looked.

And she gasped. "Wow…that must have been a fortune…" She felt him take her hand, and she followed without thinking…There were no appliances…there was an enormous hearth…a copper cauldron hanging in it. "Sherlock…"

He didn't answer. They were upstairs now, and he was looking for an open door. He didn't like to think what might be behind a closed one.

At the end of the hall was a mostly open door…he headed there with purpose and turned right into the room, never letting go of Molly's hand. He closed the door behind him.

The room was dark.

He dropped her hand at last and looked for something to light a candle with.

"There's an oil lamp here, Sherlock," Molly said, turning the burner.

"Don't turn around, Molly."

"What?" she asked bemusedly.

"Don't turn around…" and he placed his hand on hers. "Trust me."

"Trust you," she repeated with sarcasm, then turned.

There were two people sitting in chairs, looking up at the ceiling. Molly gasped.

They weren't moving.

She can be stubborn. "I think we should go…" he said.

"Are they…is that…?"

"Yes. Let's get out of here," and he went to open the door.

Locked. Of course it was.

Molly crept over to the pair of people…"They're dead…" and they were looking up at the ceiling.

"Yes," and he went over.

"Why on earth would you want to leave?"

"Because. Molly. Haven't you noticed anything odd about this party?" he was a bit taken aback.

"The party?"

He rolled his eyes and went to the table, looking for a newspaper or something…there. _The London Times, Saturday, 31 October, 1885._ "Read this."

She took it. "Oh…they really went all out, didn't they?"

"Sorry?"

She looked at him. "They even got a fake newspaper," she smiled.

"I don't think it's fake. The entire party appears to be something out of…" he looked again. "1885."

"Well, that's rather the point, isn't it? It's authentic."

"This isn't authenticity, Molly. This is…" he looked around. "Something else entirely."

"Are you suggesting we've traveled back in time?" she smirked.

"Well. Why not?"

"Because it's absolutely ridiculous. Time travel…it's not possible."

"That's rather narrow minded, wouldn't you say?" he looked at the pair of cadavers in the chairs in front of him. "And what's more…there's an apparent murder to solve. Perhaps that is the reason behind our…predicament."

She looked at him crookedly. "Impossible. Think about what you are saying."

"I have…" and he knew that he must sound mad. "Consider the facts. The place is absurdly old…as in, the decor and such. People are speaking in English not heard in decades. There are pipes being smoked. Someone mentioned a carriage. How many carriages are you aware of in 21st century London?"

"Well…there are carriage rides…"

"They mentioned taking the carriage out of the carriage house here and readying it for home."

"Oh," she squeaked softly. "Why? Why would this happen?"

"I don't know…" and many things went through his mind. "Well…we have these two dead people," he offered. But he also thought that this would be an excellent opportunity to speak to Molly about Sherrinford.

If he could stomach it.

"Molly…perhaps we should sit…"

"Where? There are two bodies sitting in the chairs," she looked at them. Well, she _was_ a pathologist. At least she was a hundred and forty years from now. She wondered a moment if her expertise would matter in this time.

Of course it did! she admonished.

Molly walked over and began looking at the two bodies. "They've…" she looked very closely. Her brow furrowed. There were no signs of anything amiss. "Cardiac arrest?" she guessed. But the looks on the man's and woman's face appeared to have a very particular affect.

"No…" he looked around, taking in the room. Sherlock then walked over to the window.

It was shut with the clasp tightly.

The air outside had been rather warm for the end of October…though it was unclear if the air he had felt was the air of the present day or 1885.

He went over to the couple…their faces were contorted into a grimace…there was no peace there. Perhaps they had been moved to this particular place purposefully…

Sherlock dropped to the floor to examine the rug and the chairs the people were sitting in. There was no sign that the furniture had been moved recently. That likely meant that the pair had been sitting, just as they were, when they died.

He stood, a heavy breath issuing from his nose. There was something he was missing.

He didn't like it when he missed something…

…and he looked at Molly. "We should talk," he blurted out.

"What about?" she was looking now at the woman.

"About…the thing. That happened."

"What?" now she looked at him. "You mean the time you humiliated me? And you waited weeks until you spoke to me? And what is it now? A month since it happened?"

"Forty one days," he replied.

"Forty one days," she repeated. Molly turned away. She had no desire to discuss this now. She also had a feeling that this was an elaborate scheme. "Let's concentrate on what the problem is, shall we?"

Sherlock swallowed. He nodded. He wouldn't press it. "What do you reckon?" he asked, with a quick nod to the corpses.

She sighed and looked over at them. "I don't have any instruments…" she went to the chairs. "They've been deceased…for…." she looked at the skin, prodding the cheek of one slightly. "About five hours…"

"Mm…four."

She looked up at him, her brow furrowed in annoyance. "Why don't you have a look, then?"

"No no. Please," he gestured toward the chairs.

Molly shook her head. Sometimes she really hated him. "Well, four then. No signs immediately of stroke or seizure…"

He began to pace around the room. It was the room. This room, in particular. He scanned things…

…and he looked at the books on the shelf. "Paltry collection." And he knelt by the hearth.

"Well," Molly began. "If it really is the 1800s, books were not in great supply. You needed to be wealthy."

He turned toward her. "Yes," he smiled very slightly, then folded his hands behind his back. "What do you make of the room, Molly?"

"The room," she furrowed her brow, looking round. Unremarkable, really. "Erm…" It was sparsely furnished, the rug was weathered. Dimly lit, but then, most rooms were. "Not much."

"Come now. Think," and he walked toward her.

She sighed, offering him an angry glance. "It's a sitting room of sorts."

"Upstairs?"

"Well…" she considered this. "A library?"

"It's an adjacent room. To a master bedroom."

"How do you figure?"

"We are in a writing room…observe the desk. The master here writes his letters and bills at the desk, then places them on this small table…" he went to a table by the door. "And the servants see them to the post."

Molly nodded.

"…it isn't very finely furnished because no one is in here save the master and the said servants."

"So these people…"

"Are the servants," he looked at them.

"Oh."

He looked at her once more. "Molly. I believe they were murdered."

"Murdered?" she saw no evidence of that in the bodies…"How?"

"I cannot be certain yet, but consider. How could two rather young, and in obvious good health, people, suddenly drop dead at the same time?"

"I…" she had no answer. "Why?"

"Exactly," and he went to the desk and sat at it. "Tell me how you are," he said as he rummaged through papers.

"How I…"

"Are. Am. Yes," he looked up at her briefly.

"I'm…ok?"

"Are you?" he was shuffling through. The answer had to be here.

Molly folded her arms across her chest. "Well, yes. I'm fine. Considering."

"Considering what?"

"How can you?" she spat.

He looked at her…she was going to open up, and he had to be ready. He swallowed and stood. "Molly…"

"No! No. You just shut up, Sherlock Holmes. I don't want to discuss this on your terms."

He looked at her steadily. Well, what did he expect, really? "Fine. Let's discuss it on your terms, then. What are your terms?"

"What are my…?" Incredulity laced in her face…"My terms are, nothing! No desire to talk about this at all! I want you to let it go. I am trying to forget all of it."

"Is that wise?"

"No. But I don't care."

"Yes you do."

Good god how she hated him. "Sherlock. You have decided to wait forty days to talk about this. Why would I want to now?"

"Well, I _did_ talk about it, but insufficiently."

"Humph," and Molly went back to the cadavers.

"I'm sorry," he muttered.

"I'm sure you are."

"But Molly…I've had time to consider, and I think…I think that we need to talk about it further."

"What ever for? You've made it plain that you want things to be just as they always were. And now I'm fine with it."

"I never said…"

"You didn't have to," she snapped back. "Look," Molly sighed. "It took some time for me to come to terms with…all of it. I'm not even sure that I am. Have. Whatever," she paused. "But I resent you dragging this up."

He looked at his shoes. He could not argue further. "I'm sorry. I never meant…" he almost said 'to hurt you,' but it sounded so empty. "Any of this to happen."

She felt her eyes sting, but ignored it. "We are locked in, you said?" she observed, changing the subject.

"Yes."

She sighed. "It's rather close in here…" the room, small already, felt even tinier all of a sudden.

"Well, I could open a window," and he thought that this was an excellent segue.

"All right," and she wiped her brow with the back of her hand.

"Molly," he was by the window, attempting to pry it open. "Can you come here?"

She walked over. "What is it?"

"Look…" and he pointed at the sill.

"Dust," she shrugged.

"The window is sealed shut. There is a rather thick layer of dust on the furniture…but there are two servants in the room."

Molly looked around. She hadn't really noticed the dust before, at least, she didn't think some dust meant anything. But now, looking more closely, it was oddly white. She went to touch it.

"Don't!" he swatted her hand away.

"What?"

"It's arsenic."

Molly looked around. "Arsenic? They were poisoned?"

"Obviously."

She looked more closely. Yes, that was certainly possible. Probable, even, given the ages of the two dead people. Molly tilted the woman's head back to look more closely at her nostrils. They were irritated and red, as though the woman had been scratching at her nose. Or maybe the arsenic had been enough to cause the redness. Molly stood up. "Well. Why?" she put her hands on her hips.

"Here," Sherlock handed her a piece of paper.

It was withered and charred.

She took it. It was a letter from his mistress, and she was telling him that she was pregnant. "So?"

"If it is 1885, and he is married, and his wife didn't know about this, then maybe he was covering his tracks."

"But why murder the servants?" she looked over at them.

"Because they likely saw some correspondence."

"Oh…" and she was sad for it. "Ruthless," she walked over. "Such a waste. They aren't disposable…" Molly looked up at him. "But he treated them as though they were," she swallowed. "Where did you find the letter?"

"Hearth," he replied, nodding toward it.

"Expendable," Molly said. "They didn't matter…"

"Rather like how I've always treated you."

Her eyes shot to his. "What do you mean?"

"Come, Molly. You said it yourself. I have treated you as though you didn't matter."

She backed away from him. "Don't," she breathed.

"I'm so sorry, Molly. I am. And I've lived that phone call thousands of times since."

She closed her eyes. "I need to get out," she went to the door…

…still jammed.

Molly felt him walk toward her. "Please don't," she choked out.

"I know that I've behaved badly. I know that I don't deserve your forgiveness, but please. Please forgive me," and he touched her fingers softly.

And this time the tear escaped her confining pool, and bled down her face…and indeed, it was a bleed…for she had shed so much more than mere tears over this man. "You want me to forgive you? But didn't I already?" she tore her hand away. "Haven't I done everything that you want, over and over again? What do you want from me? I've given you everything! And you stand there…you just…you're there…and you…" she sobbed. "And I've loved you," she whispered. "I've loved you. And you've done nothing but laugh at me…" she swallowed, attempting to collect herself. "What do you want, Sherlock?"

He was shaking all over…for it was now. "You," he said. "I love you. And I'm so sorry…But I've never laughed at you Molly. I couldn't."

"What did you say?"

"I'm sorry?"

She smiled slightly. "Before that."

"I…" and he knew. And he had known since Sherrinford. "I love you."

Molly backed into the door, her hand on the doorknob. They would leave this place. And he would forget. "Are we in 1885, Sherlock?"

"I believe so."

"To solve this double murder?"

"Perhaps…"

She shook her head. "Unbelievable…we are in 1885, and you love me. And I can't decide which is more outrageous."

"When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth…."

"What?" she smiled.

"Nothing," and he leaned into her, his hands running up her sides to her face, and kissed her.

…he kissed her, and she closed her eyes, sighing. It was happening, it was real. "Is this real?" she said somehow.

He didn't answer her, but continued to kiss her.

And then there was a knock at the door. Sherlock pulled away. "Yes?" his eyes were still on Molly.

"Sherlock? That's you?"

"John…" he turned. The bodies were gone, the hearth closed up. There was a television in the corner.

Molly looked at him, still Victorian-clad. "John?" she said aloud.

"You all right in there?" there was a smile in his voice.

"Fine," Sherlock shouted back. "Be right there."

Molly couldn't speak. He was looking at her as she heard John's footfalls fade. He reached behind her and turned the knob.

It opened.

Molly's gaze fell and she pushed the door open. She was shaking slightly.

She didn't look at him as they turned out into the hall.

…and she felt him take her hand in his.


End file.
